Chapter 28 #2
His mouth works between my legs, and I'm making sounds I'm going to be embarrassed about later—breathy, desperate, half-words that aren't even language—but I can't stop because his tongue is doing something obscene and his fingers are sliding inside me and I can't think. I can't think about anything except—
Ahh.
There.
Right there.
His tongue circles my clit and I'm already close, already shaking, and it's too fast but I don't care.
"Don't stop. Don't—fuck—don't stop—"
He doesn't stop. His mouth is relentless, his fingers curling inside me. I come with his name breaking apart in my mouth and my fingers twisted in his hair.
He keeps going.
"I can't—" My voice is wrecked. "I can't again, it's too—"
"You can." He doesn't lift his head. "You will. You're going to come for me again because you're mine and I want to feel it."
Possessive bastard. Arrogant, possessive bastard. I should argue.
His fingers thrust deeper. His tongue doesn't let up. The oversensitivity tips into pleasure, then past it, and I'm climbing again before the last orgasm has finished.
"Koshin—I—fuck—"
I come again. Harder. My heels dig into the mattress and my back arches and I'm definitely going to pass out.
The look on his face—smug and hungry and possessive—should annoy me. It doesn't. It makes me want to pull him back down and do that again.
I have problems. Many, many problems.
"One more."
"I can't—"
"Not like that." He's unlacing his own pants, shoving them down. Hard. Flushed. Leaking at the tip. "I need to be inside you. Now."
I reach for him before he finishes the sentence and pull him down. His cock presses against my entrance and I'm so wet, so slick from coming twice, that he slides in easy. All the way. One thrust that seats him deep and drags a groan from both of us.
Full. I'm so full.
He stills, his forehead dropping to mine. For a moment he's not smiling—just breathing, just feeling me around him, just present in a way he rarely is.
"Iowyn." My name comes out rough. Almost reverent.
My eyes have slipped closed.
"No." His hand finds my jaw and angles my face up. "Eyes on me. I want you here. With me."
I open my eyes. His are silver and close and fixed on mine.
"There you are." His thumb strokes my cheekbone. "Don't go anywhere I can't follow."
Something twists in my chest. Something I'm not going to name.
"Move." I wrap my legs around his hips. "I need you to move."
He moves.
Not gentle. Not slow. He fucks me the way he killed the Faith leader—certain, ruthless, inevitable. Each thrust drives the breath from my lungs. Each snap of his hips makes my nails dig into his back hard enough to draw blood.
"Mine." The word comes out of him like a growl, his teeth finding my throat. "You're mine. Say it."
"Yours." I claw at his back, his shoulders. "I'm—I'm yours—"
And I mean it. That's what terrifies me.
"Again."
"Yours—"
He's groaning into my neck, biting and sucking marks that I'll see tomorrow, marks that everyone will see. His hips stutter—he's close—and I'm close again too, impossibly, stretched tight around him.
"Come for me." His voice is wrecked. "One more time. I want to feel you."
I come. No choice in it, no thought, just my body clenching around him as he follows a second later, slamming deep with a groan that sounds like it hurts.
After.
Tangled in his sheets. His cock still inside me, softening. My legs still wrapped around him. Both of us breathing hard, sweat cooling on skin.
His head is resting on my chest, ear over my heart. His fingers trace patterns on my hip—idle, possessive. I run my hand through his hair and feel him press closer.
"The gun." I say it into the quiet. "It's perfect."
"I know."
"Arrogant bastard."
"Also true." He lifts his head and looks at me, silver eyes searching my face. "You've never fired one."
Not a question. He already knows.
"No."
"Then I'll teach you." He pulls out—the sudden emptiness makes me gasp—and rolls off the bed in one fluid motion. "Now. Before we move."
"Now?"
"You're going to use it tonight. You're going to know how to use it well." He's already pulling on pants, not bothering with a shirt. The muscles in his back shift as he moves. I'm still staring. Still wanting.
Three orgasms and I still want him.
Pathetic.
Absolutely pathetic.
"Thought the plan was: point at father, pull trigger, feel nothing."
"That's the goal." He picks up his discarded shirt and tosses it to me. "The training is how we get there."
I catch it. Still warm from his body. Still smelling like him.
I pull it on and nothing else because apparently I've stopped caring about dignity entirely.
His private range is underground, another secret door, but this one was in his common room this time.
Stone walls. Targets at the far end—human-shaped, torso-height, standing in a neat row.
I'm in his shirt. Just his shirt. It hits mid-thigh and I'm barefoot and my hair is wrecked and there are bruises blooming on my throat and I can still feel him between my legs—slick and used and sensitive.
This is fine. Very professional. Great atmosphere for weapons training.
Koshin's eyes drag down my body when I step into the torchlight. His jaw tightens.
"You're doing that on purpose."
"Doing what?"
He vaguely gestures up and down my body.
"Looking like that." His voice has gone rough. "In my shirt. While I'm trying to teach you something."
"You gave me the shirt."
"A mistake I'm regretting." He crosses to me, and there's heat in his eyes. "I'm going to spend this entire lesson thinking about bending you over that table."
"Then you should focus."
"I should." He doesn't sound like he's going to. "Gun."
He hands it to me. Green detailing catches the light. His fingers brush mine and neither of us pulls away.
"Grip first." He moves behind me, his chest warm against my back. Bare skin through thin fabric. His hands cover mine, adjusting my fingers. "Dominant hand high on the grip. Other hand wraps around it. Firm, not strangling."
I adjust. The wood settles against my palm. His breath is hot on my neck.
"Good." His voice drops. "Now your stance."
His foot nudges mine wider. Shoulder width. Then his hand presses flat against my stomach—low, palm spanning my navel—and holds me there.
"Your power comes from here. Not your arms."
"That seems counterintuitive."
"Most true things are." His lips brush my ear. I shiver. "Aim. Both eyes open. Look at the target, not the gun."
I look. The human-shaped target stares back, blank and patient.
I'm very aware of his hand on my stomach. The heat of his chest against my back. The way his thumb is tracing small circles against the fabric. My thighs press together.
"Line up the sights." His voice is low, intimate. "Front sight sharp, target slightly blurred. When you're ready—squeeze. Don't pull. Don't jerk. One smooth motion."
My finger finds the trigger. Cool metal.
"Breathe in." His hand presses harder against my stomach. "Breathe out. At the bottom of the exhale—"
I squeeze.
The gun kicks—barely. The recoil is nothing, a slight push, and then my arms are steady again. Downrange, the target has a hole in its chest.
Center mass.
"Again."
I fire again. Another hole, two inches from the first.
"Again."
Third shot. This one goes through where the throat would be.
His hand hasn't moved from my stomach. His chest is still pressed to my back. I can feel his breath, fast now, against my neck.
"You're adjusting." His voice has gone strange. Strained. "You're adjusting your aim between shots. Nobody taught you that."
"You just told me to aim at the target."
"I told you to aim. I didn't tell you to correct for the recoil pattern and compensate for muzzle rise on a weapon you've never fired." His hand slides lower—just an inch, fingers brushing the hem of the shirt—and stops. "Shoot the rest."
My breath catches. I empty the gun into the target.
Every shot lands. Chest, chest, throat, head, head, chest. The grouping is tight—close enough that I could cover them with one hand.
I lower the gun.
"Well." Koshin's voice is barely a whisper against my ear. "That answers that question."
"What question?"
"Whether you were made for this."
His hand slides under the shirt.
I gasp. His fingers drag up my inner thigh, and I'm still holding the gun. I'm still holding the gun and he's touching me and the target has ten holes in it and this is so fucked up I can't breathe.
"You were." His fingers find me—wet, still sensitive from before—and push inside. "You absolutely fucking were."
My hips jerk. The gun wavers.
"Keep it up." His voice is dark. Commanding. "Keep the gun up. Aim at the target."
"I can't—"
"You can." His fingers curl inside me and I nearly drop the weapon. "Aim. Both eyes open. Front sight sharp."
I raise the gun. My arms are shaking. His fingers are moving, slow and relentless, and I'm trying to line up the sights but I can't see straight. Can't think straight. The target blurs and his thumb finds my clit and I choke on a moan.
"There's ten rounds in that magazine." His mouth is hot against my ear. "You're going to empty it. You're going to hit the target every time. And you're going to come while you do it."
"That's—" My voice breaks. "That's insane."
"Probably." He adds another finger and I clench around him. "Do it."
I squeeze the trigger.
The shot goes wide. Clips the target's shoulder.
"Sloppy." His fingers thrust harder. Punishment or reward, I can't tell anymore. "Again."
I fire. Center mass this time. His thumb circles my clit and I whimper.
"Better. Again."
I'm shaking. I'm shaking and dripping down his hand and I'm going to come, I'm going to come with a gun in my hands and that should horrify me but it doesn't. It makes me hotter.
It makes me want to empty this magazine and then beg him to fuck me on the floor of this range while the gunpowder smoke clears.
I fire again. Headshot.
"Good girl."